


The Truth of Good Intentions

by zeldadestry



Category: Numb3rs
Genre: Community: 100_women, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-21
Updated: 2006-03-21
Packaged: 2017-10-12 10:29:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldadestry/pseuds/zeldadestry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A cynic would say that she does this to punish Charlie, to punish him for loving Don best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Truth of Good Intentions

**Author's Note:**

> prompt 020, 'clean', for 100_women fanfic challenge

She's never been fucked before, that's just all there is to it.

And now that she's had it, now that she knows what it's like, it completely consumes her.

Hell, there's never been anything, ever, that could distract her from her work like this does. She can be facing the blackboard, in the middle of explaining a formula to her students, and she'll realize that in just a few hours he'll be right behind her, silent, one arm too tight around her waist, his rough fingertips moving slowly up her thigh. And her pussy throbs when she pictures it, she's wet and she wishes her whole class, every single stupid student would just disappear, be sucked into a black hole, and she'd be alone, free to slip her fingers in, stroke her clit and come, shaking on legs just about to collapse under her.

Yes, being with him, it's always just about to fall away beneath her feet. Each time he tells her they can't do it again, and she acts like his concerns matter. She acts contrite, all the while hoping she can get him to touch her again before he leaves.

"We're not doing anything wrong," she reminds him. "Charlie and I broke up." Technically, this is true. He left her, after all. The fact that they continue to occasionally sleep together is not relevant. There are no promises between them.

Don scowls at her and she scowls back. "I do talk to my brother, Amita. He does tell me what's happening in his life."

"Does he give details?" she says. She'd like that, in a fucked up way. She'd like Don to know that she's different with him, that she screams only for him. Of course, he probably already knows it. She leaves him bruised. Fucking is like fighting, she muses. Don knows about fighting, about taking your man down before he can do the same to you.

"Of course he doesn't give details. But we all know there's still something between you two."

"There's really not." She is the one who stands between them, who keeps them apart. She thinks they all know that, whether or not they admit it. She can admit it to herself.

"He loves you."

"He really doesn't." She reaches across the bed and pulls at the sash to open the shades. Sunlight pours into the room and she narrows her eyes, pushes the sheets away so that her bare skin can enjoy its warmth. Don instinctively moves out of sight. "You know he doesn't, or you wouldn't be here with me." He's running the shower, and after a few moments she follows him into the bathroom. "Why are you here?" she asks, admiring the lines of his arms as his hands lather the soap. She slips her hands between his, their fingers slide together in the slick suds. One hand washes the other, she thinks, idly. Oh, post-coital endorphins are good, aren't they? Her brain is so slow and easy and her thoughts glide together, one after the other, no friction. There is nothing here to be figured out, nothing to be understood. There is only his body under hers, or his chest against her back, just two bodies, and the specter of Charlie in the corner, so easily ignored. She steps into the shower behind him, rests her cheek against his back, between his shoulder blades.

"You started this," he says, and his regret is seeping into her. She wraps her arms around him. If she's going to feel it, if he's transmitting it through his skin, than let her feel it all the way through. She wants to feel what he's feeling, she wants to share it, even if it incriminates her.

She did start it. The first time it happened, she went to Charlie's house while he was teaching. She knew his father was out of town. Who could she have been looking for besides Don?

A cynic would say that she does this to punish Charlie, to punish him for loving Don best. A misanthrope would say that she is a cruel child, endlessly taunting. I'm going to take what you want, just because I can. It isn't that, though. It really isn't. She does want Don, and if Charlie doesn't love her, then what's wrong with it? He's turning in her arms and the soap bubbles that had covered his body are now spreading across her skin. His hands are holding her face and she loves when he does this, when she can let go and just let him move her, let him shape her body the way he wants. He kisses her, turns the water off with one hand, even though neither of them have rinsed off. They step out of the tub and he guides her down to the floor. She's not as wet as she could be, so it hurts a little when he presses inside her, but it's still good. He sucks her fingers into his mouth, pins them between his teeth, like he wants her inside him as much as she wants him inside her. It gives her ideas. The bar of soap is on the floor beside her and she grasps it in her free hand, gets her fingers slick as she can and then slides her hand down his back, down to the cleft of his ass. Her two fingers press in easier than she would have expected. Charlie asks for this; it's the reason she keeps her nails short. She's never touched Don like this before, never heard him gasp like this. He'd been gnawing at her fingers, but now they fall from his mouth. "Fuck," he says, "Amita, god damn." His hands are on either side of her, holding him up as he thrusts, his eyes are shut, his breath shaky and she keeps moving her fingers in him, just as he's moving his cock inside her.

"This is what Charlie wants," she says, "isn't it? He wants to be where I am, right now. We both know it." Don thrusts once, twice more, and then his hips go still and he's coming, jaw clenched, teeth grinding shut, like he's terrified of what he might say.

He slumps down over her. "You fucking bitch," he says into her hair. "Don't ever say that again." He doesn't pull away from her when she kisses him. His tongue lingers against hers. After the first time, he told her she had the softest mouth. She loves the taste of his mouth, his spit, his come. She didn't say it to be a bitch. She didn't say it to be mean or to hurt him, she only said it because it's true. She's wondered before if that's why the FBI needs their help, because they're trained to be objective, to be unattached to the outcome, able to accept the evidence, even if they hate what it proves.

When he pulls his mouth away from her, she thinks she might cry. "Please don't leave."

One of his fingertips is teasing her clit. "I'm not leaving." He takes his finger away, begins to trail his kisses down her body, moving towards her pussy.

"No," she says.

"No?"

"Use your fingers. I want you here beside me." She wants to see his face. She doesn't want to turn away from anything. She can accept situations, people, for what they are. She can accept herself. She can. It's her duty. His body is hot against her, but the floor underneath them is cold and she shivers as he strokes her, as they watch each other.


End file.
